The Bitter Clamor Of Two Eager Tongues.

Where Art Thou, Muse, That Thou Forget'st So Long / To Speak Of That Which Gives Thee All Thy Might?

Nay, Do Not Think I Flatter. For What Advancement May I Hope From Thee, That No Revenue Hast But Thy Good Spirits To Feed And Clothe Thee? Why Should The Poor Be Flattered?

Set Honour In One Eye And Death I' The Other, And I Will Look On Both Indifferently.

Foolery, Sir, Does Walk About The Orb Like The Sun; It Shines Everywhere.

Now, By The World, It Is A Lusty Wench; I Love Her Ten Times More Than E'er I Did: O, How I Long To Have Some Chat With Her!